


lesson learned

by jadeddiva



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma knows that a year has passed, but there’s a harshness to him that speaks of something else.  It cannot be just the year without her, she rationalizes, but she knows all too well how the loss of someone you love have feelings for can change a person.  Prison wasn’t the only thing that hardened her heart.  Emma and Killian Jones, post 3x14</p>
            </blockquote>





	lesson learned

They are soaked to the bone when they return to the loft, tracking wet footprints across the faded rugs. Emma shucks off her leather jacket, undoes the soaked scarf that is wrapped around her neck.

“Shower,” she says.  “Or else we’ll freeze to death.”

Killian looks up from near the door, cheeks pink from the bitter cold (and it travels down his throat to his exposed chest and Emma wonders, not for the first time, how cold he really is and how much he is hiding from her).   He nods, extends his hand as if to tell her that she can go first but Emma shakes her head.  

“Come on,” she tells him.  “I’ll show you how it works.”

The bathroom in the loft is small, but enough for two people to navigate and so she shows him out the shower operates (it’s not intuitive, not these older models) and soon there is hot water flowing over her fingers.  She glances at Killian, smiles.

“I’m going to make us some coffee,” she tells him, making the mistake of glancing up at his eyes and then she has to look away because she can’t be in this small space with him, not right now.

“Thank you,” he says when she reaches the door, and she nods before pulling it shut behind her.

Emma strips in the small laundry room before running upstairs to find her robe, not even concerned that Killian could emerge from the bathroom and see her nearly nude (the water is too warm, too great of a draw for him and she’s almost envious but she will get her turn, it will be her in the shower and that is enough). 

She makes coffee in the meantime, but her thoughts drift continually to the shower and the man in it. 

He’s different.  He’s not the same man that she drove away from at the town line. 

Emma knows that a year has passed, but there’s a harshness to him that speaks of something else.  It cannot be just the year without her, she rationalizes, but she knows all too well how the loss of someone you ~~love~~ have feelings for can change a person.  Prison wasn’t the only thing that hardened her heart.

But there is anger in Killian she hasn’t seen before – sure, he was angry when he met her, but his anger was clear and focused: revenge.  This is a different type of anger, and not for the first time she wonders just what happened to him on his ship, and just what price did he have to pay to find her.

(Not that she’s ungrateful – she hates that she forgot how well they work together, or the genuine affection she feels for him.  She’s not sure that it’s love, because she’s not sure she knows what love is anymore after Walsh, but whatever it is, it’s something she wants to keep feeling in spite of his recent dickish behavior).

The coffee percolates and she looks under the counter for the bottle of whiskey she knows David keeps.  She finds it just as she hears the door crack open and Killian’s voice from the bathroom.

“Swan, unless you want me to parade around your parent’s home in a state of undress, I may need something to cover myself.”  There is a pause which she waits for, and then: “Unless you’d like that.”

She smiles.  “I’ll get you a towel,” she tells him, hurrying to the linen closet and finding several large bath towels.  The door swings open and she looks away as he wraps it around himself and then emerges, skin flushed from the heat of the shower, rivulets of water tracing a path downwards from his shoulders and lower.  She notices that he still wears his necklaces, and they gleam against the damp hair of his chest.   With another towel, he dries his hair and wipes away the traces of guyliner that are smeared beneath his eyes and she can’t help but stare at him.  He looks so young without the eyeliner and so broken too, his left arm hookless and without the brace, his right still wearing his rings, and Emma wonders if this is who Killian Jones is beneath all of the bravado and sass.

 “What?” he asks defensively, tilting his head in that way of his that indicates a snarky remark is forthcoming and she braces for it, “disappointed there’s not more hair underneath?”  He extends his arms and smirks, and there is nothing but distain in his gaze.  “Sorry, love, but I’m all man.”

Emma exhales, a spark of anger suddenly stirring inside of her.  This passive-aggressive bullshit is getting ridiculous and she shakes her head, brushes past him into the bathroom.  “Go fuck yourself,” she mutters under her breath, because she’s freezing cold and not in the mood to deal with his issues.  As she turns to close the bathroom door, she catches the look on his face and it is not what she thought it would be.

Instead of a smirk, Killian looks utterly distraught, and she doesn’t say anything as she closes the door between them.

The heat of the shower doesn’t help her clear her head.  She knows that he’s broken, knows that he’s angry, knows that he loves her or at least that he thinks he does, but Walsh is not her fault.  Someone’s been planning this for some time and they took advantage of her and if anyone has a right to be angry, it’s Emma, not him.  She didn’t know who he was.  _She didn’t know who any of them were._

It’s like a dam breaks inside her at that moment, because she’s so fucking tired of this bullshit.  The tears come then, tears that she’s probably been holding inside since she remembered who she was, tears less from anger than from absolute futile frustration, and when they come, they come with a sob.

She wants a life without obligation – she wants _her_ life.  She doesn’t want to be the Savior.  She just wants to be a mother, and maybe get married and have a family that she can go home to after a long day.  She doesn’t want to be hunting down green-skinned witches or have to deal with fairy tale characters on the regular.  She just wants to live.

There is a knock on the door and she can barely hear Killian’s voice through the shower so she yells, “I already told you to fuck off,” and _why is she not surprised when the door opens anyway?_

“Are you all right, Swan?” he asks, and she just can’t.

“You can’t do this,” she tells him through the thin shower curtain.  She shuts off the water.  “You can’t act like an asshole about my accidentally dating a monkey and then act all concerned when I’m hurting because of what you said. You can’t love me and treat me like this, Killian.  It’s not fair.”

She hears his sharp inhalation of breath, and then hears the sigh when he says, “You’re right, Swan.  I’m sorry.  It was bad form to take out my frustrations on you.”

“Why?” she asks.  The bathroom air is already hot and muggy from the shower, and their conversation makes everything seem heavier.  She crosses her arms across her chest.  “What happened in that year that made you this broken person?”

He barks out a bitter laugh.  “Was already broken before this, love.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you tell me that broken things still work?” she asks.  “Can you hand me my towel? It’s the green one.”

He does, and she reaches out from behind the curtain to grab it, quickly towel drying her hair before wrapping it around her. 

“I did,” he says, “but I wonder, Swan, if maybe some people are too broken to work properly.”

“That’s bullshit.”  Emma pulls back the curtain, stares at him. He’s still wearing just the towel, and he averts his eyes from her (not expected, but not unwelcome).  “You love me.  You’re capable of love.”

“Aye,” Killian says, finally meeting her eyes, “and look at all the good that has done me.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, uncertain.  

“I spent a year pining for you, Emma, and when the message came that I needed to find you – that only _I_ could find you – I did everything I could.  I made deals, I bartered the thing I held most dear, I did what I had to do to find you.   I thought…” he trails off, looks away.

“You thought what?” Emma asks, stepping out of the shower, eyes never leaving his face.

“The message said only I could find you, so I thought this – whatever this is between us – might be true love.  Foolish, right?” he asks, scratching the back of his head with his hand.   “So when I found you in New York…”

“You were angry about Walsh,” she says, piecing fitting together.  “You were angry that it wasn’t true love.  What you bartered – your ship? For me?”

“I would do it all over again for you,” Killian tells her, eyes meeting her own, and her heart is in her throat.  She knows it’s true, she knows he would because he never lies to her. 

“You can’t be angry because I was cursed,” she cautions him.  “I know you can’t forgive me, but you can’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry at you, love,” he says, taking a step backwards and towards the door of the bathroom.  He reaches down, scoops up his clothes and his hook.  “I’m angry because no matter what I do, I will still be too broken to work properly.”  He reaches for the doorknob, sad smile on his face.  “I’m sorry for my actions, Swan.  Thank you for the use of your washroom.  Just give me a few moments to dress and I will depart.”

“Wait – “ she says but the door is already closed behind him and she rests her palms against it, taking a moment to process everything.

Emma is not sure what she feels for him is love, but there’s something there and above all else, she cannot abide the fact that he thinks he is too broken to ever be loved because that is bullshit and she knows it firsthand.  She doesn’t deserve the love of all the people in her life, let alone his absolute devotion and sacrifice, but if she has it, then not all hope is lost.

She flings the door open to find him absolutely naked on the other side, stepping into his pants, and he raises an eyebrow at her but says nothing. 

“No,” Emma says.  She takes a step forward, uncertain, but all she knows right now is that they are both broken idiots and maybe they deserve each other after all.  Her fingers go to the front of her towel.  “Don’t go.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he tells her, but she smiles. 

“Maybe I want to,” she says.  She steps forward, into his personal space, and reaches for his hand.  “Besides, if you’re all man then why don’t you prove it?”

That gets a reaction from him – a low growl, a predatory look, and he says, “Darling, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” before taking a step forward and crushing his mouth against hers.  Something ignites within her then, something deep and powerful and she opens her mouth, tongue touching his, pulls back and bites his lip.  His hand goes to the front of her towel and she lets it fall to the ground and then it is skin against skin.  She moans into his mouth at the feeling of him pressed against her, the friction of his body against hers, and he breaks the kiss, rests his forehead against hers, hand on her hip.

“Emma,” he says.

“Upstairs,” she directs him.

They barely make it into her bedroom before he is pinning her to the door, kisses hot and needy and super-charged in a way that speaks of the year he spent without her (“I dreamed of this” he tells her, sucking against her neck, “Dreamed of you like this”) and she kisses right back, fingers carding through his hair, hips pressing against his.   They back up to the bed and he eases her onto it before crawling up alongside her, hand tracing up her thigh, over her hip, between her legs.  He doesn’t stop kissing her, trails kisses along her jaw, sucks a bruise on her collarbone, moves his fingers over her and into her as he takes a nipple into his mouth and she, she threads her hands through his hair and presses up into his mouth with another moan. 

She’s _there_ within an instant, his fingers working her expertly as she reaches her peak, and he rests his forehead against her shoulder, fingers still moving against her.    She shifts her legs, opens herself to him, and he glances up at her as if to make sure that she is ready.

Emma smiles.  She wants this, she realizes as the heat coils again inside her belly, as Killian shifts and adjust himself, positioned at her entrance.  She wants to feel whole again, and as he slips inside of her, hips against hers, she feels it.  Obligation be damned, everything be damned, the only thing she wants right now is her life and him (and maybe it’s always been him).

He is hovering over her, looking at her with those blue eyes of his that make her feel everything, and there is a softness in his gaze, a sadness too, and she rubs her thumb against the apple of his cheek and smiles because right now she knows that two broken people can be whole together.

He shifts, thrusts, hits the spot within her that makes her arch against him, and he does it all over again.  She clings to him, nails digging into his back with every movement, hips meeting his, and it is nothing but heated looks and occasional wet, sloppy kisses, the world narrowing to the two of them in this space, in this room.

She falls first when he hits just the right spot, and he swallows her cry with his kiss, thrusting erratically before he joins her, limbless and sated.

“See?” she says softly, brushing his hair off of his face, “look what happens when you don’t act like a passive-aggressive dick.”

Killian laughs against her neck, arm wrapping around her to pull her close to him. 

“Lesson learned,” he tells her, lips against her shoulder.  “Lesson most definitely learned.”

She smiles, reaching for the covers.  She’s still really cold from the rain, and she’s absolutely certain that she can think of more ways to warm up.


End file.
